Movement woke Yalena with a clang and a jolt that made her gasp. It was dark, so dark she couldn't see anything, and cold enough to hurt her skin, where she was sprawled across something lumpy and cold. "Mom? Are we in the cargo box?"
No one answered. Yalena groped through the darkness, trying to find her mother's hand. Her seeking fingertips encountered nothing but more of the ice-cold lumps she was lying on. Panic set in. "Mom!"
Her wrist-comm beeped softly.
"Sugarplum?"
"Mom! Where are you?"
"That's not important. But I do need to tell you something that is. I can't go with you. There are some things I have to do. Or try, anyway. Tell your father I love him . . ."
"Mommy! You can't do this! You have to come with me!"
"I can't, sweetheart. And we can't talk like this, on an open comm-line. I love you. Remember that, always, whatever happens. I'll get a message to someone, to let you out of there, okay?"
"Mommy!" Yalena was groping, blind and terrified, for the side of the cargo box, where the door opened, and discovered there was no way to open it from the inside. Her breath caught in a painful knot. Her mother couldn't come with her, because there wasn't a way to latch the door properly from the inside. Somebody had to latch it from outside. She was neatly trapped. Her mother must have realized that all along.
She was also on her way to the space station, with no way out. Yalena started to cry as the box swayed into the air. They tilted and swung around as stevedores transferred the cargo box to a waiting freight shuttle that would take her into orbit. They jolted, slid, clanged to a halt. Then waited. Interminably. Yalena was shivering with cold, miserable and scared. Then a rumble vibrated through the boxes. She finally identified the sound: orbit-capable engines coming on-line.
A moment later, the shuttle lifted ponderously, swinging around with a spin that left her inner ears protesting. Then a giant fist crushed her down against the frozen meat. She couldn't move, could barely breathe. It went on forever, an agony in every muscle . . .
The engines cut off and she was abruptly weightless. Spinning nausea bit her throat. She was falling, could feel herself falling. Yalena tried to convince her inner ear that she was just weightless, in orbit, but her inner ear wasn't having any of it. She threw up, creating a mess that drifted unpleasantly through the narrow space into which her mother had crammed her. Let me down! her body was screaming. That sounded like a very good idea to Yalena. Weight returned for a few seconds as the shuttle punched its engines in a short burst. The pilot was probably jockeying them around to dock with the station.
How much time passed, Yalena didn't know. There were more bursts from the shuttle's engines. Then a clanging sound rang through the hull and abruptly Yalena dropped against the frozen meat. They'd made spacedock with the rotating station and the centrifugal spin gave her weight, again. She had no idea where, exactly, she was. Yalena knew that cargo shuttles never off-loaded directly into the freighters. They docked with the station and transferred cargo through Ziva Two, to give inspectors the opportunity to search for contraband.
Would they check Yalena's box? Her mother didn't think so and the more Yalena thought about it, the more convinced she became that nobody would open this box to inspect it. With this much contraband going out, the station's team of inspectors had to be aware of it. And were doubtless well paid in exchange for keeping their mouths shut while the modified boxes flowed through unchallenged.
The cargo box shifted, jolting and bumping its way out of the shuttle's cargo bay and into the station. Then they started sliding forward at a steady pace, riding on what must've been a conveyor belt of some kind while running the gauntlet of "random" inspections. They stopped several times, but nobody opened her box. They bumped their way off the conveyor and moved in a new direction. Another conveyor, Yalena realized. It was a long trip, moving as slowly as they were. At length, they were jolted and tipped and ended up stationary with a clang and a bump.
Unless she were vastly mistaken, she had reached the freighter's hold.
There were other jarring bumps as more cargo boxes were stuffed in. Yalena started to panic. They were going to bury her at the back of the hold, with so much stacked over and around her, she'd be trapped and die of starvation, or maybe just from the bitter cold. There was a abrupt cessation of sound as the loading stopped. Yalena caught her breath, tried to hear through the muffling walls.
A sudden grating noise assailed her ears. Then a sharp crack sounded as the door to her prison was thrown abruptly open. Light stabbed into the cramped space, blinding her. Someone exclaimed aloud, then hands reached in, pulling her out of the freezing cargo box. She was so cold and so cramped from lying there, she couldn't stand up. She was picked up and carried. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized a man was holding her, a man who looked strangely familiar, although she was fairly certain she'd never seen him, before.
He was staring at her, brows knit in puzzlement. "You don't know me, do you?"
She shook her head.
"I'm Stefano Soteris, supercargo on The Star of Mali. Your mother," he added with a slight smile, "is my cousin."
Yalena's eyes widened. "You're her cousin?"
"That I am. And your second cousin. It's lucky for you that we docked when we did."
Yalena didn't know what to say. She hadn't known her mother's cousin worked on a Malinese freighter. Then guilt smote her squarely between the eyes. She hadn't known, because she hadn't ever shown the slightest interest in her own family. She didn't even know how many cousins she had, let alone second cousins. Her ignorance was her own fault and no one else's.
"I'm sorry to be such trouble," she whispered. "I've been nothing but nasty to everybody. Stupid and hideous and now . . . now people are risking themselves for me . . . and I'm not worth it. . . ."
Once she started crying, she couldn't stop. Literally could not stop. Her mother's cousin picked up speed, striding rapidly through the ship while she sobbed on his shoulder. She heard voices, Stefano's and a woman's, then she was lowered to sit on what looked, vaguely, like the edge of somebody's bed. Stefano's hard shoulder was replaced by a softer one. Gentle arms came around her, held and rocked her.
"Easy, child, shh . . ."
When the body-wrenching sobs finally eased away, Yalena realized she was leaning against an older woman with a lot of grey in her short-cropped hair. She was dressed as a spacer, in a close-fitting body sleeve made of something supple. One whole shoulder was soaking wet.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"No need to apologize," the woman said, peering into her eyes. "You've come through several kinds of hell in the last few hours. I'd say you've earned a good, long cry. You need a good bit of sleep, as well. Your eyes are burnt out. And here's the ship's surgeon."
The doctor examined her with great care. "I'm giving you a sedative, young lady. A fairly strong one. We'll do a bit more tomorrow, when you're feeling up to it. For now, just rest."
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, unable to say anything else. He administered the sedative, gently, using a hypo-spray that barely stung at all. They left her alone, then, with nothing further to stand between her and her conscience. Facing herself was almost as bad as facing the Bolo had been. Every selfish, meanspirited, stupid thing she had ever done or said came back to rattle through her mind like swords on a whirligig. How could she ever make amends for the hurt she had caused her mother, over the years?
Even worse was the prospect of facing her father. That was so daunting, Yalena would almost have preferred to jump out of the freighter by the nearest airlock. The memory of sitting in a hospital waiting room, insisting with childish selfishness that she wouldn't leave Jefferson, when her father was desperately injured and would face a nightmare of rehabilitation alone, left her writhing inside, soul-sick and exhausted.
How could she have demanded her own way at a time when her parents needed one another, desperately? All the laughter had gone out of her mother, that day, and it hadn't returned in two long years. Yalena whimpered with the excruciating self-knowledge that she had spent those years twisting the knife deeper with every nasty comment, every belittling prejudice, every petty little demand she'd laid down as an ultimatum.
A song from her childhood floated into her mind, a cheerful little song that danced in razor-sharp shoes. Growing oats and peas, barley and beans . . . farmers who did nothing but dance and sing and suck money away from decent people by charging outrageous prices for plants that grew themselves . . . A pretty, poisonous lie handed wholesale to a wounded, desperate child. Everything POPPA had said was a lie. The whole fabric of her life was a lie, a stained and tattered ruin that nothing would ever put right, again.
Yet her mother had risked her own life, rescuing Yalena out of that deathtrap. Why? When she had spent her life preferring the company of her friends and the gossip at school over everything and everyone else? And now she didn't even have those friends. POPPA had killed them. Coldly and without remorse. In that moment, a hatred of POPPA cyrstallized, so deep and so dangerous, it scared her.
I can't make it up to you, Mom, she whispered as the tears began to come, again. I can't ever undo that damage. But I can stop being stupid and I can stop hurting people. And maybe one day . . . Yalena bit her lip and rolled over to bury her face in the pillow. Maybe one day, I can do something that will make you proud of me, instead. Then the weeping broke loose again and she soaked the pillow under her cheek. She was still crying when the sedative pulled her down into gentle oblivion.
I limp back toward my depot under a veil of darkness and apparent secrecy. The most noteworthy observation I make en route is the utter lack of civilian presence anywhere along the path I follow. Farmhouses, villages, and the occasional fuel station are vacant, giving every appearance of having been abandoned in a great rush. I conclude that the government has issued orders forcibly evacuating a corridor that allows me to crawl home unobserved.
I am still thirty kilometers from depot when a sudden "Mayday" broadcast originates from Nineveh Base. Someone is screaming incoherently about an attack. I catch the sound of massive explosions, then the broadcast slices off. I monitor government communications and tap the planetary datanet via wireless communications. I cannot access the base's security system without a land-line connection, however, which leaves me effectively blind. I need to know what is happening at Nineveh Base.
I attempt to contact my mechanic.
He does not respond. He is either so drunk he has passed out or is not in his quarters. Either way, he is useless. I attempt to contact Nineveh Base's commandant. No one answers. I do not like this state of affairs. I continue to plod northward, unable to speed up without risking further damage to my tracks. Minutes crawl past. At my current rate of speed, it will take thirty hours to reach my depot. I debate the wisdom of contacting Jefferson's president or even Sar Gremian. I have doubts that either will be inclined to respond.
Sixteen point three minutes after the abortive distress call from Nineveh Base, a massive flash strobes across the northern horizon. A far-off rumble of sound resolves into an explosion of such staggering size, it nearly stops me in my tracks, from sheer shock. I am the only thing on Jefferson capable of creating an explosion on that scale. Unless . . .
I do not care for the implications.
Not at all.
My entire supply of replacement munitions is on Nineveh Base. Along with all my spare parts and what passes for a mechanic. I pick up speed. Damaged track plates rattle. The burst of light that heralded the explosion has faded to a steady, dull glow that marks a large fire when my final aerial drone, circling the canyons behind me, registers a burst of rifle fire. Nervous P-Squads searching for rebels with stolen munitions shoot straight up. The drone goes off-line.
My personality gestalt center registers dismay and disgust in equal measures. Ninevah Base is under attack and my last drone has just been shot down, a victim of "friendly fire." Without a drone, I cannot find attackers to launch a remote strike. Even at my increased rate of speed, I cannot reach Nineveh Base in time to do anything about the attack, let alone trace the attackers. The strike force will disappear in its entirety long before I arrive.
Sar Gremian contacts me. "Machine, do you see any sign of rebel gun crews out there?"
"No. Request VSR. What was the cause of the explosion my sensors just registered?"
"Somebody's shot the shit out of Nineveh Base. Find them."
"I have sustained damage that precludes—"
"I don't give a hairy rat's ass! Find them!"
"I would welcome suggestions as to how I should accomplish this. I am incapable of speed greater than three km per hour. I have no aerial reconnaissance capability left, as the P-Squads searching the canyons behind me have just shot down my last aerial drone. I cannot shoot an enemy I cannot find."
Sar Gremian's suggestion is anatomically impossible. I do not possess the kind of orifice into which he suggests I insert an appendage Bolos do not possess, as we do not procreate biologically. His order is therefore invalid and cannot be carried out. When I tell him so, he simply terminates the call. I maintain Battle Reflex Alert and strain my sensors to their greatest range, but catch no sign of any rebel forces.
Clearly the attack against Barran Bluff was carried out specifically to gain access to the heavy weaponry needed to assault Nineveh Base. Anish Balin has proven himself a shrewd and resourceful commander. I speculate that the Hancock Family Cooperative was the target of a substantial rescue operation, with the destruction of the air assault team at Barran Bluff used deliberately as a diversion to draw me away from Nineveh Base. My presence there would have doomed any such rescue, as the commander of the rebellion doubtless knew only too well.
If the seven Hellbores left behind had succeeded in killing me—as they could have done, if their crews had been better trained—the rebellion could have brought POPPA and its ruling regime to its knees in one night. This suggests speed, good military intelligence that is probably the result of a talented computer programmer hacking into the government's computerized security systems, and a level of organization surprising for a fledgling group that has had neither time nor opportunity to train. An army of civilian soldiers can be formidable, particularly when motivated by a combination of high ideals and righteous wrath.
The Granger population has an ample supply of both.
They have failed to destroy me, however, which dooms them to a long and costly war of attrition. How costly that war will be is brought home to me when I finally reach a line-of-sight distance from my maintenance depot. The eastern sky is turning to flame above the Damisi Mountains, heralding the rising of Jefferson's sun, when I halt on the floodplain, a full kilometer from the smouldering wreckage.
Nineveh Base no longer exists. Neither does my maintenance depot. Phil Fabrizio's quarters are entirely gone. So is most of the surrounding shantytown. Thousands have died, here. Battle rage sweeps through my personality gestalt circuitry. There will be retribution for this wanton slaughter. It is one thing to shoot soldiers in combat. It is another to destroy innocent civilians whose main crime was living too close to the backblast of war.
I feel a twinge in my complex logic circuitry, which I suppress. I have no desire to follow the chain of thought that would compare the actions of Granger rebels with my own actions in downtown Madison. I was operating under orders from a lawfully elected president. The Granger rebels have acted in willful defiance of that government, perpetrating an illegal act of war. My duty is clear.
How I will carry out that duty, I do not know. I have tangled with the rebels only once and have sustained serious damage. That damage cannot now be repaired, certainly not in a timely fashion. I hesitate to consider what Sar Gremian will send by way of a replacement mechanic for Phil Fabrizio. There is no point in sitting out here, a kilometer away from the destruction, since Anish Balin's men have been gone for hours. They have doubtless scattered to hiding places in the Damisi Mountains.
The thought of searching the maze of canyons weathered into those mountains is too daunting to consider. I spoke the truth to Sar Gremian when I told him that I cannot make such a search. Anish Balin doubtless knows this and will capitalize on it, to his advantage and my frustration. As there is no point in continuing to sit where I am, I move cautiously forward. The destruction has been savage and thorough. When I reach the perimeter of my own missing depot, I halt again, literally at a loss as to my next course of action. There are no guards along the base's perimeter, mostly because there is not enough left to guard. Rescue workers are combing the wreckage of shanties, attempting to find survivors. Or perhaps merely locating bodies for burial, to reduce the contagion likely to spread from unburied remains. I am noticed and pointed at by crews who clearly would prefer to take themselves elsewhere.
I am still sitting there when a civilian groundcar approaches, picking its way carefully through the rubble-strewn streets of the shantytown. My first thought—that POPPA officials have arrived to inspect the damage—is only partially correct. The occupant of the car has, indeed, arrived to survey the damage. But he is not a ranking member of POPPA's government. Phil Fabrizio climbs out of the groundcar and stares at the bare patch of ground where his quarters once sat.
"Aw, shit, man! They blew it all to goddamned hell!"
I am so startled to see my mechanic alive, it takes me three full seconds to find something to say. "You are alive," I finally manage, with less-than-scintillating wit. "Why?"
Phil stares up at my warhull. "Huh? Whaddaya mean, 'why?' "
"Why are you alive? More accurately, where were you, as you clearly were not in your quarters at the time of their destruction."
"Huh," he snorts, "I wasn't in 'em, 'cause I ain't entirely stupid. When the shootin' started, I skedaddled, just jumped in my car and ran for it. They blew up a buncha buildings, straight off. I didn't figure it was too healthy to stick around, you know? So I hightailed it over to my sister Maria's house. We heard the whole place go, right after I got there, like a volcano or somethin', but there ain't no news reports on it, nowhere. Not even the chats. So I figured the only way t' find out was t' go home and see for myself. Only," he stared at the spot where his quarters no longer stood, "I got no home left. Goddamn 'em! How'm I s'posed to pay for alla my stuff? You can just bet your flintsteel butt, Sar Gremian ain't gonna pay for it."
I sympathize with Phil's loss, as I find myself in exactly the same predicament. Unlike Phil, however, my losses will force Sar Gremian to act, if he wants me to continue functioning as a mobile interdiction force. Phil is entirely correct in his assessment of Sar Gremian's reaction. He will not like the size of the price tag.
"What happened to you?" Phil finally asks, noticing for the first time the gaping holes in my track linkages.
"I was shot. I require extensive repair to damaged tracks."
"But—" He stumbles to a halt, staring in open dismay. "How'd you get shot? I watched the news last night, before all the shooting and shit started here, and they never said nuthin' about you gettin' shot." He frowns. "Come t'think of it, they never said nuthin' about you bein' there at all. And you was never in the pictures. Just the explosions, blowin' up the rebels. I never thought about it, 'cause I knew where you was, an' all. Why didn't they show you fightin' those gun-totin' land hogs?"
"It is politically expedient for the government to hide the fact that I was required to put down an armed rebellion. It is also in the government's best interest to hide the fact that the rebels were sufficiently armed and dangerous to inflict heavy damage to me. That damage must be repaired. You will need track plates and durachrome linkages to replace seventeen point three meters of damage in my left-hand track, twenty point five meters in my right-hand track, and eleven point nine-three meters in my central track."
Phil's nano-tatt contorts itself into a knotty tangle of black filaments reminding me unpleasantly of Deng infantry. He scowls at the ground, then mutters, "I dunno how t'do that. And even if I did, which I don't, what am I s'posed to use? Spit balls and elbow grease? I got no tools, let alone parts!"
"Sar Gremian will have to authorize payment for off-world equipment to be shipped in, which will take time. In the interim, you will have to scrounge."
Phil scratches his ear. "Yeah, but how? And scrounge for what, exactly? We got nothin' on this whole planet strong as durachrome. Hell, we can't even make durachrome. What'm I supposed to use? Steel?"
I review technical specs. "Not an optimal metal, but steel linkages should work, if I do not have to face combat against Deng Yavacs. They will have to be replaced after every mission, however. My weight will warp and degrade them over any appreciable distance. I will download technical specifications on metallurgy, casting, and forging requirements for you as reference material when contacting potential vendors. Tolerances must be within specification, as well. I would suggest contacting the Tayari Mining Consortium's tool-and-die division for assistance."
"How'n hell I s'posed to do that?"
"Try looking them up on the datanet," I suggest, with creditable patience. "Your status as this world's only Bolo mechanic gives you treaty-level clearance to request technical assistance from any on-world resource."
This elementary piece of advice appears to affect Phil Fabrizio like Divine Writ. "I can? Hey, that's like fuckin' fabulous! Yeah, I'll do that! I'll download them specs you was talkin' about—hey, how'm I gonna do that? My computer got blown up."
"Go back to your sister's house. When you arrive, call me on your wrist-comm and tell me the identity code for your sister's datanet account. As the engineering specs for my treads are not classified, I am authorized to download them to an unsecure computer. Clearly, you will also need a new computer."
He gives me a grin. "Now that, I can scrounge by my own self. Sit tight, Big Guy. I'll call you."
He swaggers back to his car, chest puffed out at the prospect of calling Tayari's executives with a question they must, by treaty obligation, answer. My mechanic is easily delighted. I could learn to envy such a carefree creature, under other conditions.
Phil has been gone for twelve point three minutes when an aircar on approach vector from downtown Madison signals me, using the proper command code to enter my proximity alert zone without triggering a defensive reflex. The aircar circles above the shattered base for three point oh-seven minutes, evidently taking stock of the damage. Two minutes and twelve seconds later, the multi-passenger aircar touches down near my warhull. Sar Gremian emerges. There are eleven high-ranking military officials with him and four other civilians. I brace for trouble.
"Bolo," Sar Gremian says with an unpleasant tone grating through his voice, "we've come to give you a medal. Aren't you pleased?"
I am not pleased. I am astonished. Of all the things I expected Sar Gremian to say, "we've come to give you a medal" is the least-anticipated phrase imaginable. It is a measure of how disheartened I have been, that such a ploy succeeds in pleasing my personality gestalt center's ruffled logic trains. It is good to be recognized for a job well done, particularly when it has resulted in physical damage to one's self. The battle for Barran Bluff was particularly savage, in its way, and will have long-lasting consequences.
The president's senior advisor has brought four general officers with him, along with three colonels and four majors, a surprisingly high number of staff-grade officers in an army that has been dismantled from the ground up. Based on their uniform devices, there are now more command-grade generals than battalions. It is a strange way to run an army.
I recognize the generals and two of the colonels from news broadcasts and meetings I have monitored. I face the officers and Party officials responsible for the creation of propaganda, the seizure of privately held property, the placation and control of urban subsistence recipients, and the conversion of property into currency used to fund POPPA's social and environmental programs. I do not feel particularly honored by their visit.
General Teon Meinhard gazes up at my turret for several seconds before clearing his throat to speak. "Well, now, we've come to give you a medal, y'see. A nice, shiny one. It'll look good, welded up there with the others. It's a public service award. The highest we have. We're here to commend you for the heroic assault you made, defending the public good."
"That is appreciated, General. It is not easy to destroy seven 10cm mobile Hellbores shooting at you from behind cover."
The general blinks in evident surprise. "Hellbores? I'm not talking about destroying any Hellbores." He shoots a suspicious glance at Sar Gremian. "Is that what did this?" He waves one hand at the destruction surrounding us. "Hellbores? Where in blazes did common criminals get their hands on something like that? I didn't know we even had Hellbores!"
I am appalled by the general's utter lack of information on the battles that have been waged in the past several hours. A general who remains totally ignorant of the basic facts surrounding the heaviest military engagement since the Deng invasion is not worth his weight in mud. Sar Gremian explains the situation to General Meinhard in openly contemptuous terms, an attitude I suspect is well-earned. The other officers smirk and even the civilians appear to be concealing derisive expressions. I begin to think it would have been no great loss if General Meinhard and the officers with him had been quartered on Nineveh Base, rather than living off post in a wealthy civilian section of Madison, which are the official addresses on record for these officers.
When Sar Gremian completes his brief situation report, I seek clarification. "Why are you giving me a medal, if not for the battle at Barran Bluff? The insurrection at Barran is the first combat I have fought since the Deng invasion. I have not been part of any other engagements that would qualify as an assault in defense of anything."
"But you have," General Meinhard protests. "You crushed a riot that killed the president!"
I am struck speechless. Jefferson's government is giving me a medal of valor for crushing civilians in a riot? A riot that would never have ended in Gifre Zeloc's death if I had not been ordered to crush protestors in the first place? Or if he had used ordinary common sense, rather than jumping into a mob full of enraged Grangers? I sit in stupefied silence as one of the majors crawls up my warhull, medal and welding torch in hand.
"I'll put it on this side," the major says, "so it'll stand out from all the old ones."
He welds the new "ribbon hanger"—as military slang has dubbed such things through the centuries—onto my turret. After one hundred fifteen years in service, I finally understand why a medal can be referred to in such dismissive terms. I find myself glad that he has not sullied my other badges of honor by adding this gaudy decoration to the cluster of medals that reflect genuine service to humanity. The major succeeds in welding the thing to the right-hand side of my turret, where it blazes in lurid testimony to folly.
Sar Gremian steps forward while the major is still climbing down and peers critically at the damage to my treads. He frowns. "For once," he mutters, "you weren't just pissing and moaning. Those tracks have to be fixed. We can't afford to have some reporter get a photo of you with that kind of damage visible. I suppose we'll have to find a replacement for that worthless mechanic of yours, as well."
"That will not be necessary," I advise him. "Phil Fabrizio was not in his quarters when they were destroyed. He had left the base to visit his sister. I spoke to him before your aircar arrived."
Sar Gremian frowned. "Where is he? Never mind that, just call him and tell him to shag his ass out here. He's going to earn that fancy salary we've been paying him."
"Very well. Message sent."
The president's advisor says, "Get some work crews out here, Teon. I want a fence around the Bolo, something solid, that curious reporters can't photograph that machine through, and put an interdiction on fly-overs until we can rig something to park this thing under. Get 'em out here and started within thirty minutes. Phineas," he addresses a man whose wrist-comm signal identifies as General Orlége, POPPA's chief propaganda official, "we're going to need one hell of a damage-control effort on this mess. We can't hide the loss of Nineveh Base or even Barran Bluff. It's got to be explained."
Phineas Orlége says smoothly, "It's being handled. I've already cleared the basic strategy with Vittori and Nassiona. As expensive as this will be to replace," he waves one hand at the scorched earth of Nineveh Base, including in his gesture my own damage, "this incident will work powerfully in our favor. By my conservative estimate, the events of the past twenty-five hours—and I include Gifre's death and the arson in downtown Madison—will move our timetable up by several months, at a bare minimum. By this time tomorrow, we may be as much as a year ahead of schedule, which is fine news, indeed. The masses will not tolerate this kind of brutality and their reaction will give us precisely what we need. I refuse to be discouraged by mere price tags, particularly given the size of the stakes in this fascinating little game."
Sar Gremian favors him with a cool stare. "Then I will give you the pleasure of presenting the bill to Vittori and Nassiona. Your glib assurances may desert you."
Phineas Orlége smiles. "I shall look forward to seeing which of us is right."
I am attempting to decide whether this comment was a threat or challenge when Phil pulls his groundcar to a halt six meters from the group beside my ravaged treads. He climbs out, sees the cluster of uniformed officers, and halts. His nano-tatt flares a deep mustard yellow, while the remainder of his face loses color entirely. The resulting combination is not visually appealing.
"Who are you?" General Meinhard demands.
"That," Sar Gremian says coldly, "is the Bolo's mechanic. You'd have known that, if you'd bothered to read the security reports I sent when we hired him."
Meinhard turns purple and sputters. Sar Gremian ignores him and turns his ill temper onto my technician, speaking with a bite like acid. "What kind of excuse do you have for deserting your duty post in the middle of combat?" He gestures to the empty, burnt-out ruin of my maintenance depot. "Do you have the slightest idea what this equipment was worth? Or the spare parts? You didn't even try to defend it. You just ran like a scared rabbit and let a pack of terrorists blow it up. I should by God take it out of your pathetic little salary. Better still, I should have you court-martialed and shot for treason!"
Phil's jaw muscles bunch in sudden anger. His nano-tatt pulses crimson. He thins his lips and glares at the president's senior advisor, but does not speak. This is perhaps the wisest thing I have ever seen him do.
"Did you hear me, you stupid slopebrow?"
Phil's jaw juts forward, increasing his resemblance to an angry australopithecine. Quite unexpectedly, I sympathize. I have been on the receiving end of Sar Gremian's temper. Phil goes up in my estimation even further when he says, "How's about I set somethin' straight, Mr. High-and-Mighty Advisor? Court-martial is what'cha do to soldiers, only I ain't a soldier. I'm the Bolo's technician. You ought t' be dancin' for joy, 'cause it's a damned good thing I got the hell outta here when the shootin' started. If I hadn't a got outta here when I did, you'd be lookin' for a new mechanic, on top of all the other stuff you gotta pay for.
"So how's about you stop slingin' the shit my way an' get me some goddamn tools and crap t' fix him with? And maybe while you're at it, you can get me a computer and some new clothes and a toothbrush, 'cause I just lost every goddamn thing I had in the world, on account a somebody screwed around and let a bunch a land hogs steal weapons they got no business to have. How's about you do alla that before you come around here pissin' all over me? You still got a place t'sleep, tonight. I don't and I ain't in no mood t'listen to some uppity jackass tellin' me this is my fault, when anybody with half a brain coulda' seen it comin' from ten kilometers away."
Sar Gremian turns white. "I refuse to be insulted by a vulgar little street rat!"
"Who stuck the hot poker up your ass? You got nuthin' to bitch about an' you're just wastin' time flappin' your lips at me, 'stead a doin' your job. You don't like hearin' it? You c'n always get out th' same way you got in." He jerks his head toward the aircar. "Hey, Sonny, you want I should throw the bum out?"
I begin to like Phil Fabrizio. He is illiterate, although possibly less stupid than I gave him credit for, but he is tough as nails and apparently cannot be intimidated by anyone or anything. Including me, for that matter. These qualities would have made him a fine technician, if he had actually known anything. Perhaps there is hope for remedial training?
"That will not be necessary," I tell him. "But thank you for offering," I add with all sincerity. "This does not, however, address the immediate and critical problem of obtaining sufficient spare parts to repair the damage. I am likely to need repairs again in the near future, as we still face a situation wherein insurrectionists have seized high-tech weaponry and demonstrated that they know how to use it. There are three missing mobile Hellbores and hundreds of octocellulose bombs, hyper-v missiles, and small arms that will doubtless be used at first opportunity. Given the circumstances, it is imperative that I regain mobility as quickly as possible. I find it difficult to believe that Anish Balin and his followers will show greater leniency to POPPA Party officials in elected or appointed office than they showed the federal troops at Barran Bluff or the P-Squadron personnel on Nineveh Base."
My analysis of the situation brings a moment of chilled silence.
"Gentlemen," Sar Gremian says in an icy tone, "I suggest we return to Madison. Now."
They depart, rapidly, leaving Phil to stare after them. When their aircar has gained sufficient airspace for horizontal flight, Phil mutters, "They shouldn't a'been so upper-class snooty. First of all, it ain't right. Second of all, it ain't what POPPA is all about."
I do not respond, as my view of POPPA is at variance with his.
Phil, apparently in all innocence, glances up at my warhull and asks, "What do you think?"
I have been asked a question, allowing me to respond, rather than simply listen to complaints. "POPPA is composed of two tiers. The lower tier produces many outspoken members who make their demands known to the upper tier. The lower tier is derived from the inner-city population that serves as the base of the party. The lower tier's members are generally educated in public school systems and if they aspire to advanced training, they are educated in facilities provided by the state. This wing constitutes the majority of POPPA's membership, but contributes little or nothing to party theory or platform. It votes the party line and is rewarded with cash payments, subsidized housing, subsidized education, and occasionally preferential employment in government positions such as you hold, as my mechanic. The lower tier produces only a handful of clearly token individuals allowed to serve in high offices.
"The upper tier, which includes most of the party's management, virtually all the appointed and elected government officials, and all of the party's decision-makers, is drawn exclusively from suburban areas where wealth is a fundamental criterion for admittance as a resident. These POPPA party members are generally educated at private schools and attend private colleges, many of them on Vishnu. They are not affected by food-rationing schemes, income caps, or taxation laws, as the legislation drafted and passed by members of their social group inevitably contains loopholes that effectively shelter their income and render them immune from unpleasant statutes that restrict the lives of lower-tier party members and all nonparty citizens.
"POPPA's leadership recognizes that in return for supporting a seemingly populist agenda, they can obtain all the votes they require to remain in power. Even the most cursory analysis of their actions and attitudes, however, indicates that they are not populists but, in fact, are strong antipopulists who actively despise their voting base. This is not merely demonstrated by such confrontations as you have just enjoyed with Sar Gremian, it is proven by their efforts to reduce public educational systems to a level most grade-school children on other worlds have surpassed, with the excuse that this curriculum is all that the students can handle. They have made the inner-city population base totally dependent on the government, which they control.
"Their current actions are repressive and heavy-handed. Last year's abolishment of the presidential election commission is a case in point. It was passed in clear violation of this world's constitution, but has not been stricken down as unconstitutional. Until that legislation passed, POPPA was required to placate those elements of the party uncomfortable with an extremist agenda. That restraint no longer exists, paving the way for POPPA's leadership to be as extremist as they wish. Given events of the last two days, I predict a harsh response that will clarify POPPA's deeper agenda for everyone to see."
"But—" Phil sputters. "But that's not what the party's about! Not at all! POPPA loves the people! And I can prove it! POPPA takes money from all them rich farmers and gives it to the poor. And if that law was unconstitutional, then how come the High Court ain't done anything about it?"
"The High Court has been drawn, with the exception of a single individual, from the upper tier of POPPA leadership. I am fully aware that you have had no real historical training, but I can list fifteen cases from the last two years, alone, where high courts rendered purely political judgements that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with political expediency. Your comment about the party's intent only shows the logical fallacy of their statements. They say they want to help 'the people,' but their efforts have succeeded in lowering overall living conditions, reducing educational standards, and sharply curtailing individual freedom.
"As to the 'rich farmers,' the agricultural producers remaining on Jefferson live on fifteen point seven-three percent less money than the poorest of the urban subsidy recipients. Yet they work sixty and seventy hours a week at hard physical labor and they endure a standard of living three times lower than conditions in Port Town's worst slums. There are no 'rich farmers' anywhere on Jefferson.
"There is a phrase from a major Terran religious text that is appropriate to this situation: 'By their fruits shall you know them.' POPPA has only one demonstrated attitude—contempt—and one demonstrable goal—total power. POPPA's ruling echelon has very nearly achieved that goal, which will give party officials an open field in which to demonstrate its utter contempt of those it holds powerless. Jefferson is on the brink of political and economic disaster."
Phil stares, openmouthed. Then he says, "If you really believe alla that, how come you obey their orders? Especially the unconstitutional ones?"
"My controlling authority rests solely with the president and is not governed by the constitution. My mission parameters were defined by Sector Command. I take advisement only from the president. As long as presidential orders do not exceed my parameters for 'excessive collateral damage' or conflict with my primary mission, I am under the president's orders for rules of engagement."
Phil blinks several times. Finally manages to squeak, "You mean you're the president's personal Bolo?"
"In effect, yes."
"And you do whatever the president orders?"
"Yes. Unless it violates my mission or involves excessive collateral damage."
"What's, uh, 'excessive collateral damage?' "
"There is an algorithm that determines the relative target worth versus the likelihood of collateral damage. One example is using a nuclear weapon to destroy a city from which I am taking ineffective fire. I cannot fire nuclear weapons at a city unless there is effective fire directed at my position."
"What if the fire is effective? Like, damaging your track."
"Then I can fire at will, as I did in combat against Anish Balin's forces. In that engagement, no civilians lost their lives. Had that battle occurred in a city, rather than a military outpost, there would have been civilian deaths. It is unfortunate and I do my best to avoid this, but collateral damage happens. I am not proud of having crushed to death civilians in my attempt to reach Gifre Zeloc. Given the parameters of that engagement, with the constraints of not being able to fire my main weapons systems, I killed as few as possible while carrying out the immediate mission."
Phil does not speak. His jaw muscles clench. I detect an expression in his eyes that I have not seen there, before. Then he turns on his heel and stalks over to his groundcar. He slams the door and drives away, moving in a rapid and reckless manner. I am alone again.
I do not like that feeling.
Three days later, Simon received an incoming call from The Star of Mali. Simon hadn't seen his wife's cousin since the wedding, but he knew Stefano Soteris at once.
"Colonel Khrustinov?" Stefano asked, brow furrowed as he stared uncertainly into Simon's ravaged face.
"Hello, Stefano. Sorry about the alterations to my face. I didn't have much of one left, after the aircrash. The surgeons did a damned fine job, sculpting a new one."
"I'm so sorry, Colonel—"
"Simon," he said gently.
"Yes, sir," Kafari's cousin said, working to control his shock. "Very well, sir. We've just docked at Bombay Station. Can you meet us at eleven hundred hours, Gate Seventeen?"
"I'll be there."
Stefano just nodded and ended the transmission. Simon stepped through the shower, then dragged on a good dress shirt and slacks, even a jacket. He looked bad enough, as it was. He didn't need to compound it with sloppy clothes, particularly not today, when he'd be meeting Yalena. He hadn't seen his daughter in two years. He wouldn't know her and she wouldn't know him. They'd never really known one another at all. Trying to adjust to one another's company, particularly since Yalena did not see eye-to-eye with him, was going to be difficult for both of them.
He had to move slowly, even with the servo-motors of his leg braces, which allowed him to walk faster than he could with only the crutch canes. Time was, he'd feared that he would never walk again. It had taken two years of on-going treatments and hard work just to get this far. He wanted to call Sheila Brisbane and ask her to go with him, but decided against it. Yalena had enough to adjust to, without throwing in the company of a woman whose presence could be misconstrued as evidence of an affair.
No, he wouldn't do that to Yalena or himself. Or Captain Brisbane.
By the time he reached the spaceport and parked his groundcar, he had a serious case of jitters. He didn't know which was worse: dreading the reunion with his daughter—and the lie he must tell her, about Kafari—or the difficulties he would face during Yalena's adjustment, which would be tough on them both. He stopped at a small gift shop and bought a bouquet of flowers, following the old Russian custom handed down through his family generation after generation. The Khrustinovs who'd left Terra had carried that tradition from one star system to another as they spread out and made homes for themselves on distant, scattered worlds.
He hoped the custom would earn a smile, at least. He wanted to see a smile, even a half smile, on his daughter's face before he told her about her mother's death. He reached Gate Seventeen with scant minutes to spare. He had barely settled into a chair when the shuttle landed, sliding gracefully into the docking bay he could see through the tall glass windows. The engines cut off. Simon rose to his feet, clutching the flowers in one hand, and waited, not quite sure what to expect.
Then he caught sight of her. The teen-aged girl who stepped off the Star of Mali's shuttle was no longer a child. She looked up at him through eyes that had seen too much horror. He knew that look, had seen it in the eyes of soldiers fresh from combat, had faced it in his bathroom mirror all too many times since Etaine.
Yalena had grown, during the past two years. Tall and willowy, she had her mother's face, something he'd never noticed before. Her footsteps slowed when she saw him. The look in her eyes hurt. He moved forward to greet her, holding out the flowers. She took them, not even speaking, and buried her nose in their fragrance.
"Mom wouldn't come," she whispered, the words muffled against the flower petals.
"I know," Simon told her, dreading what he was about to do. He had to force himself to say it. "I received a SWIFT transmission. Before you got here."
"From Mom?" Her voice wavered.
"No," he lied. "Your mother . . . didn't make it. She was shot by a P-Squad dragoon, trying to slip out of the spaceport. They're shooting looters on sight and they don't bother to ask for credentials first." That last part was true, at least. They were shooting looters on sight.
Blood drained from her face so fast, she swayed. "No . . ."
He tried to steady her. She jerked away, rigid. "It's my fault!" she cried. "Mine! She came into town just to get me out. We walked all night through the sewers. She put me in that cargo box to save my life! And some stinking P-Squad—" She dissolved into hysterical weeping. Simon caught her, held her close. The sound of her grief, knife-edged and raw, made him want to take the words back, to reassure her. But he couldn't—just couldn't—trust her yet.
Not when she had spent her whole life believing in POPPA.
Simon wrapped an arm very gently around his distraught daughter and guided her out of the terminal. She said nothing as they climbed into his ground car. She said nothing as he drove them home. From what he could tell, she wasn't even paying attention to the city. They were nearly to the apartment before she broke her long silence.
"Daddy?" Her voice was a mere whisper.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry. I don't expect you to believe that. I wouldn't, if I were you. But I am." A single tear rolled down her cheek. "And I'll try to prove it."
He reached across and squeezed her hand. "I love you, Yalena."
Another tear appeared, trembled on the edge for a moment, then slid down her face. "I don't know why."
"Try to take it on faith for a bit."
She nodded. "Okay." Then she touched the flowers she still carried. "These are beautiful."
"I'm glad you like them." He managed a smile. "It's an old custom, from Terra. A Russian custom. Always greet people you love with flowers, when they've been gone for a long time."
Droplets that were not rain fell onto the petals in her lap. "I don't know anything about Russia. I don't know much about anything else, either," she added bitterly. "On the Star of Mali, I tried to use some of the library files, but I couldn't make sense of them. I didn't know enough to make sense of them. I kept having to stop and look things up, until I got totally lost, trying to find meanings for the things that would tell me what something else meant. I never got all the way though any of them. And I tried, really hard. I hate POPPA!" she added with a savage sob in her voice.
"It's going to be rough, I know that," Simon said gently. "But you'll have help. I've nothing better to do with my time, for one thing. And Vishnu's school system has set up special classes for refugees coming in from Jefferson. The principal told me about the program yesterday, when I made arrangements for you to start classes next week. It will take hard work, a lot of it. But you can do it. Try to have faith in that, too."
"Okay," she whispered again.
She said very little for the rest of the day and went to bed very early, pleading exhaustion. Simon closed her bedroom door softly, wishing she were little enough to rock to sleep, and made his way into his own room. He had his daughter back. A piece of her, anyway. He was grateful for that much. But he could not stop thinking about Kafari and the war she planned to wage. She was getting ready to fight a dangerous enemy and he wasn't thinking about POPPA. He was thinking about the machine he had once called friend. If Sonny killed Kafari . . .
Then Simon would kill Sonny.
It was as simple—and serious—as that.